


molecules of you

by themetgayla



Category: Pitch Perfect (Movies)
Genre: Angst, Child Abuse, F/F, Fluff, Homelessness, Hurt/Comfort, more tags to come
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-04-06
Updated: 2018-10-23
Packaged: 2019-04-19 05:34:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,374
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14230410
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/themetgayla/pseuds/themetgayla
Summary: “oh, home, let me come homehome is wherever i'm with you.”in which beca is a famous dj, chloe lives on the streets, but they somehow manage to build a home together.





	1. one

**Author's Note:**

> new multichapter fic! i'm aiming for around nine chapters in this. title taken from _molecules_ by hayley kiyoko because i'm unoriginal. summary written by shannon (i owe her so much). the idea for a homeless au came from an anon on tumblr, but the plot was written by shannon (again) because she's just so good at things like this. thank you.
> 
> anyways, i hope you enjoy this :)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **tw: child abuse, implied domestic abuse, homphobic slurs**

Chloe's stomach growls at her for the third time in ten minutes as she clambers up the stairs to her ratty apartment, and she winces when her neighbour shoots her a mildly startled look before slamming his door shut behind him. It's been protesting at the lack of food all the way home from work.

Chloe wrestles her own door open and wrenches off her sneakers, tossing her keys aside as she does so. Stumbling across the room, she collapses into her mattress with a moan of relief, pulling out the leftover ham croissant that she managed to salvage when she left work for the night. Chloe can't help the sigh of appreciation that slips out between her lips when she bites into it — it’s cold by now, and slightly soggy, but it's free food.

She can't exactly afford to turn down free food, can she?

Chloe’s job at Starbucks barely earns her enough money to get by, and she's grown used to skipping meals since she's arrived in New York City. It’s been five months since she arrived, a heavy backpack strapped to her back and just $300 to last her... well, indefinitely. Finding a job wasn’t hard; everywhere’s looking for barista’s these days, but finding an apartment? That was a different story.

The shitty apartment Chloe’s holed up in now was the only place she could afford with her tiny budget, and that was without furniture. Her salary barely pays the rent, let alone provides luxuries like heating and electricity. 

But it’s fine. She’s used to it.

Chloe forces down the croissant, ignoring the unpleasant taste. She doesn’t even like ham. As a wave of nausea rolls over her, Chloe chucks the last few bites into the bin and curls up on the thin mattress. A small shiver runs down her spine as a gust of wind blows in through the window; it’s broken, and her asshole of a landlord won’t pay to fix it.

Sighing heavily, Chloe scrubs a hand over her face and fights back the sob that crawls up her throat. She shouldn’t complain. She has a roof over her head and she’s not dying. Chloe knows that people have it worse than her, a lot worse, but the last six months of her life have been such a whirlwind and they’re only just catching up with her.

Chloe casts her mind back to _that day_ , the one that changed her life forever. It haunts her, day and night. Just the thought of it causes tears to prick at the corners of her eyes and roll down her cheeks. Chloe claps a hand over her mouth to muffle a sob, choking back tears.

She hasn’t cried since that day. She’s been doing so well. She hasn’t broken in _six months_ , and now here she is, a blubbering mess.

* * *

_“Chloe! Get down here now!” Chloe flinches as her father’s voice booms up the stairs, his tone harsh. She slams her laptop shut and scrambles off her bed, tugging her hair out of its messy bun as she does so. Her parents prefer her hair down, so she doesn’t dare to keep it up around them. “CHLOE ANNE BEALE!”_

_Chloe stumbles down the stairs, pulling her cardigan round her slim frame as her heart rate speeds up. It pounds painfully in her chest, threatening to break out of her rib cage. Dread twists deep in her gut as she wracks her brains; what did she do now?_

_She enters the kitchen to see her parents standing together, their expressions angry. Even though Chloe’s used to the icy glares and disgusted looks, it still scares her every time._

_Why do her parents hate her so much? She’s a good student, one of the best, even. She helps out at the local nursery for free, she donates any spare money to the homeless and she has nice friends. She’s a perfect daughter, according to her parents’ friends. It seems only they think so._

_Chloe hovers in the doorway, too afraid to step over the threshold. She smiles weakly as her father beckons her closer, his eyes glinting with anger and something akin to malice. Her mother’s expression is less threatening, because Chloe knows the anger is a facade to get her father off her back_  

_Chloe doesn’t blame her. How can she?_

_“We have something to talk to you about,” her father starts, stepping forward menacingly. Chloe takes a step back on instinct, but the raising of the man’s eyebrows makes her regret the movement instantly. “Get here.” He grabs Chloe’s wrist tightly and yanks her forward, the skin twisting and pinching in his grasp._

_Her mother watches silently, avoiding Chloe’s scared gaze. “W-What did I do?” Chloe sobs, trying to rip her wrist from her father’s grip. There will be a bruise tomorrow, not that he cares._

_“A little birdie told me you were gay.” He spits the final word with disgust, pure hatred raging in his eyes. Chloe’s body goes rigid as panic consumes her, suffocating her, pulling her under. Her blood roars in her ears as tears spill from her eyes and her shoulders shake._

_“P-Please dad, I-I’m not. I’m not g-gay I swear,” Chloe protests, desperately trying to tug her arm free. Her foot shoots out and slams into her father’s calf, the impact causing him to yelp with pain._

_“You’re lying! You’re a filthy little dyke.” The man lunges forwards and wraps his fingers around Chloe’s throat, forcing her against the wall. “You’re disgusting,” he hisses, tightening his hold._

_Chloe brings a hand up to her throat, her slender fingers curling round her father’s thick ones. “Please, dad,” she begs, tears dripping down her neck and soaking into the fabric of her shirt_  

_“SHUT UP.” The man squeezes Chloe’s throat tightly as he raises his other hand into the air and brings it down upon his daughter’s face. Chloe cries out as her cheek stings sharply, the skin already turning red. Her father releases his grip on her throat and slaps her so forcefully it she stumbles sideways._

_The next slap sends Chloe tumbling to the ground, clutching her burning cheek fearfully. Her father towers over her, a menacing grin spreading across his lips. “Get out. I never want to see you again.”_

_Chloe doesn’t hesitate as she scrambles to her feet and sprints up the stairs, ignoring the pained look of regret her mother shoots her. The redhead has nowhere to go, but she’d rather be anywhere else than living with her father. Anything is better than the life she’s currently living._

_Her father leaves the house as Chloe’s packing, presumably to go to the pub for a few drinks with his friends. He goes every night, comes back blind drunk every night, uses her and her mother as his punching bags every night. It’s routine now._

_Chloe worries about her mother. If she’s gone, it means the older redhead will be the only one left, the only one there to ensure her father’s wrath. The poor woman is too fragile to stand up to him, but Chloe’s doesn’t blame her._  

_Twenty minutes later, she’s ready to leave. She straps her bag to her back and trudges down the stairs, her stomach flipping. She’s finally going to be free, free of her father’s constant abuse. It’s certainly a welcome feeling._

_Chloe unlocks the front door and yanks it open, a gentle breeze washing over her as she sticks her face outside. She can almost taste the freedom. Heart in her throat, the redhead steps out of the house, grinning to herself as she—_

_“Chloe?”_

_Wincing, Chloe turns round to face her mother. She was planning to leave without saying goodbye; somehow she’d convinced herself it would be easier for the both of them if words were left unspoken. There was too much to say and too little time._

_“Mom,” the redhead whispers gently, reluctantly walking back into the house. She leaves the front door open, a reminder of what’s waiting for her. Now that she’s allowed to leave — well, she’s being forced to — her body is itching to just escape from the hell-hole she’s been trapped in for her whole life._  

_“You were going to leave without saying goodbye.” It’s more of a statement than a question, but Chloe can hear the underlying hurt and confusion in her mother’s tone._

_“Yeah. I just—There’s not much to say, is there? You never really loved me anyway.” Chloe shrugs and presses her nails into the palm of her hand to create a line of tiny crescents. She knows her mother doesn’t love her, and though it used to hurt, she’s made peace with it over the years. She can deal with it now._

_“I’m sorry, Chloe. You’re a great girl.” The woman smiles sadly, her eyes pained and haunted. Chloe just shakes her head, tears slipping down her cheeks. She’s always known it, but hearing it now, spoken from her mother’s mouth, hurts more than she’d anticipated._

_“I get it.”_

_And with that, Chloe turns and leaves. There’s no hug, no sad goodbye, no hurried kisses to her forehead, no grabbing her hand at the last minute. Her mother just stands in the doorway silently and watches her daughter walk away, out of her life._

* * *

Chloe still has nightmares most nights. She wakes up, tangled in her blanket, her soaked in a cold sweat. Her father’s menacing glare and forceful hits haunt her, weighing down on her shoulders every time she lies down. She’s been free for six months. Chloe knows no one can find her, yet she still worries the man will turn up at her door and drag her home with him.

Pained sobs escape her lips, echoing round the tiny room, bouncing off the thin walls. Squeezing her eyes tightly shut, Chloe curls into herself and pulls her blanket up to her chest, willing sleep to pull her away.

Luck seems to be on Chloe’s side, because minutes later, she feels her eyelids grow heavy. It’s probably more exhaustion than luck, but the redhead isn’t really sure she cares. All she wants to do is sleep.

* * *

Beca jolts awake from her nap as her phone starts to ring, the annoying ringtone echoing through her apartment, loud and clear. She yawns as she fumbles around blindly for the device, rubbing her eyes with her spare hand. She scoops her phone up from the floor and presses the green button, not bothering to check the caller ID.

“Yeah?” Beca mumbles, slapping a hand over her mouth to muffle another yawn. She leans back on the couch, arranging her blanket around her so she retains as much heat as possible. It’s getting cold, colder than usual for October. Even with top-notch heating, Beca’s apartment is still a bit chilly.

_“Beca Mitchell, were you just asleep?”_ Stacie’s chirpy tone filters through the speaker, and Beca knows she’s getting ready to go out. It’s a Friday night, of course she is. The brunette is still as much of a party animal as she was when they were in college together, minus the sleeping around, of course. Beca's glad that Stacie finally matured and got herself a long-term girlfriend instead of having sex every night. 

They'd always joked that Beca would be the one to get a girlfriend and Stacie would be the one that lived off one night stands, but here they are, their roles reversed. Beca's nowhere near as bad as Stacie used to be — she has the odd one night stand every few weeks or so, just to keep herself satisfied.

Beca tends to just drive to the nearest club, knock back one too many shots and seduce a woman (or two). They never go back to her apartment. Sex is often sloppy and rushed, both focusing more on function than foreplay. Beca always leaves immediately afterwards, desperate to get home and wash the smell of sex off her body; she always regrets her one night stands, but continues to have them anyway.

It's a routine though, and Beca likes routine. It's not exactly a routine she's proud of though.

Beca yawns again and groans softly. “Yes, I have.”

_“I can’t believe you! Aren’t you working tonight?”_ Beca mumbles a negative and pulls her blanket closer to her chest. She curls her toes into the couch and snuggles further into the corner of it, a wave of exhaustion washing over her. _“Why don’t you come out with Aubrey and I? We’re going to a club._ ” Beca really doesn’t know why Stacie asks, because she knows what the answer will be. It’s the same as it always is. She supposes it's sweet of her friend to ask, but she's not due another one night stand till next week, so asking now really is futile.

Beca doesn't like going out to clubs, which is slightly ironic since she spends a lot of her time working at one. It's not that she hates clubs, as such, it's more that she hates going alone without a motive. If she's going purely to get drunk and have sex, it's fine, because she doesn't have to waste time. But when she goes with Stacie and her girlfriend Aubrey, it's just awkward. Beca just ends up standing alone in a corner with a beer, sending hopeful men and women away with a sharp glare.

Beca doesn’t blame Stacie for this, not at all. She has Aubrey and that’s brilliant. They’re a gorgeous couple, and Beca doesn’t know two nicer people. It just sucks that they have each other, and she has no one.

“Stacie, you know my answer.”

_“But Becs, you never get out. You work most evenings, I appreciate that, but you never give yourself a chance to find anyone.”_ Stacie huffs through the phone, the sound followed by muffled words and a series of crashes. Beca can only guess at what stunt Stacie's attempting this time; despite her extremely good looks, she's significantly lacking in coordination. Stacie on the phone paired with trying to get ready is a recipe for disaster. 

“Don’t think I’ll find anyone while drunk off my ass at a club, but sure, whatever you say,” Beca says wryly. “Look, I’ll come out next time, okay? I promise. I’m just tired tonight and I’ve already ordered takeaway.” It’s true, she does have a medium margarita pizza on the way. Beca doesn't admit that it was hurriedly ordered fifteen minutes ago in anticipation of Stacie’s call.

_“I’ll hold you to that.”_ There’s more rustling on Stacie’s end of the line followed by another loud crash and a litany of mumbled curses. Beca smirks as Aubrey's voice floats through her speakers, scolding Stacie for attempting to straighten her hair while holding her phone. It's certainly a very _Stacie_ thing to do. Beca knows Aubrey will want to speak to her, so she waits patiently for the couple to sort themselves out and mentally prepares herself for an argument with the blonde woman on the other end of the line.

Soon enough, Aubrey's voice comes crackling through Beca's phone, her tone firm and direct. It's very Aubrey. The blonde hasn't changed since Beca met her five years ago, even when she started dating Stacie. Sure, she's softened around the edges a lot, but she's still as no-nonsense and nearly as uptight as she used to be. Stacie's working on it though.  _“Beca Mitchell, you need to take a break from work. You work six nights a week, and spend most days at the studio. Please just take a break.”_

Beca groans at the sudden attack, even though she'd anticipated it. It seemed that every conversation she had with Aubrey these days included some kind of comment about her work habits. The brunette loves Aubrey, she really does, but she's so tired of the blonde constantly going on about taking a goddamn break. “Wow, no  _‘hi Beca, how are you this evening?’_ then? I’m offended." Beca gasps, feigning hurt in an attempt to lighten the tone.

_“Beca, can’t you take things seriously for once? Take a break,"_ Aubrey snaps, clearly in no mood for jokes. Beca scrubs a hand over her face and squeezes her eyes tightly shut for a few seconds, willing herself to just wake up out of this nightmare conversation. (Okay, that's a _slight_ exaggeration, but Beca really is tired of these talks now. They're all the same.)

“Bree, you _know_ it’s harder than that. My apartment is too big, too empty. There’s no point me being an internationally renowned DJ if I have no one to share my life and wealth with. It’s pointless. Working is my way of distracting myself, you know that." Beca's pretty sure she says exactly the same thing e _very single time_ , and she's still waiting for it to sink in. Aubrey used to be a workaholic too, before she met Stacie, so Beca knows she's familiar with the struggle.

Aubrey sighs heavily and clears her throat, preparing herself for another protest.  _“Beca, I get that, I really do, but you need to—”_

Beca lets out a strangled sound of annoyance at the repeated words. “I’m tired. Have a nice evening with Stacie.” She hangs up abruptly and tosses her phone next to her on the couch. Letting her eyelids flutter shut, she reaches out to grab the television remote. Finally, some peace.

It's too quiet and she's lonely, but it's better than standing awkwardly in the corner of a club as men try to subtly slip drugs into her drink. Beca almost wishes she was working, a crowd cheering her on as she played her most popular mixes. Mixing at clubs is one of the only times she actually feels loved, like she's finally doing something _right_ after years of being told by her father that she'd never make it in the music industry. She's happy when she mixes; she feels like she's proving everyone who ever doubted her wrong.

Beca sighs softly as the doorbell rings, the obnoxious noise filling her empty apartment. Time to enjoy a quiet night in.


	2. two

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i am SO SORRY it's been so long. god, it's practically been _years_ since i posted the first chapter of this. (jk it's been months, which is no better.) i've really been struggling with my mental health and it's sapped my motivation by 99.9%. i'm trying to write more, but it's hard. anyways, please enjoy :)

When Chloe gets home from work the next day, with dirty clothes and a rumbling stomach, she finds a letter lying innocently in her doorway, her name scrawled messily across the front. It’s clearly been hand delivered, since there’s no address or stamp. Chloe doesn’t know anyone who would send her mail - it’s not like her family are going to contact her after what happened.

Chucking her tattered bag to the floor, Chloe picks up the smudged envelope and rips it open, her heart in her throat. She’s half worried it’s a letter from her landlord, demanding the rent she’s been promising to pay for the past two months. The man is a complete ass, but Chloe’s hoping he’ll take some pity on her and allow her till the end of the month to get him the money.

(Chloe hates other people pitying her, because it’s almost always never genuine, but in this case, she’s desperate. She also has no idea how she’s actually going to find the money to pay the rent she owes.)

As she unfolds the letter, smoothing out the faded white paper, her stomach drops. She should have seen it coming, she knows that, but it’s all just so sudden. She’s lived here for _six months_ , and now this has to happen. Tears spring into her eyes as she claps a hand to her mouth, trapping the sob that bubbles up in her throat.

_Miss Beale,_

_I regret to inform you that, due to not receiving your rent payment for two months, you must leave your apartment. You have twelve hours to leave the premises, or I’ll call the police._

_Mr Smith_

The letter slips from Chloe’s loose grasp as she staggers backwards and sinks down onto her thin mattress. She’s being evicted. Kicked out. It suddenly feels like six months ago all over again, a familiar sense of shame and embarrassment washing over her as her mind begins to wander, thoughts racing around her head at a million miles an hour, colliding and crashing violently.

She can’t _leave_ , can’t live on the street. She doesn’t want to. She _can’t_. Chloe chokes on a sob as she stumbles to her feet, her legs aching as she moves towards the door. She rubs a trembling hand through her tangled red hair, takes a deep, shaky breath, and opens the door.

She has to at least _try._

Chloe marches down to Mr Smith’s apartment on the ground floor as confidently as she can, her head held high, dried tear tracks still glistening on her cheeks. The redhead would wipe them away, but she’s worried they’ll just be replaced by fresh ones, which would be a lot worse, especially in front of her asshole landlord.

After steeling her expression and planting her feet firmly in front of the door, Chloe raises her hand and knocks once, twice, three times. “Mr Smith!” She yells, banging against the wood when she receives no reply. She knows he’s in there, because she can hear quiet murmuring — it’s a cheaply made building, so the walls are paper-thin.

There’s a series of crashes on the other side of the door, followed by a small cry, before it’s aggressively yanked open by Mr Smith. “What the hell do you want?” Chloe frowns and instinctively takes a step back when she sees him; he’s half naked, a pair of worn boxers clinging to his thick hips, and a cigarette is balanced precariously between his slimy lips. The redhead fights back a cough as smoke attacks her senses, and has to resist the urge to punch the fag from his mouth. (Chloe hates smokers; her dad always smoked at least forty a day. There was never a time there wasn’t a cigarette in his mouth, smoke billowing around the room.)

“Um, well I’m here about my rent,” Chloe starts, clutching the hem of her thin cardigan tightly as she wraps it around her skinny frame. The redhead swallows thickly and takes another step back; there’s just something about Mr Smith’s beady black eyes and thick, wiry beard that unsettled her greatly. A vaguely seductive voice floats out from inside the man’s apartment — _“Mark? Are you coming back? I’m waiting for you.”_ — and Chloe wrinkles her nose in disgust. Of _course_ he has a prostitute in there.

“What is it? The letter not clear enough?” Mark’s voice is deep and raspy in a way that reminds Chloe a little too much of her father when he’s drunk. An involuntary shiver runs down her spine, forcing her to curl into herself, her already high walls rising. Coming here was _definitely_ a bad idea.

“N-No, it was, but— I’m just going to go. I’m clearly, uh, interrupting something,” Chloe says nervously, the words tumbling from her mouth in a jumble in her haste to get away from the man. As the redhead turns to leave, thick meaty fingers wrap around her bony wrist, tugging her back somewhat forcefully. Breath catching in her throat, Chloe turns around nervously, her heart pounding rapidly in her rib cage.

“How ‘bout I cut you a deal, Miss? I’ll let you stay in your lovely apartment for a little something in return.” Mark leers suggestively at Chloe, his hot smoky breath tickling her throat uncomfortably. She flinches and yanks her wrist from his sweaty grip, clutching it to her chest protectively.

Chloe stumbles backwards as quickly as she can, almost tripping over her own feet as tears well up in her usually bright eyes, blurring her vision. She turns on her heel and flees Mark’s apartment, his cruel laughter chasing her mercilessly as she tears up the stairs.

* * *

Just twenty minutes later, Chloe’s ready to leave. Everything she owns is folded neatly and tucked into the same backpack she carried on her back six months ago when she fled her home at her father’s demand. The only things left in the tiny room are her poor excuse of a mattress and the small, half-broken fridge. She has all her money (some measly $100) stuffed in the inside pocket of the bag, along with two stolen breakfast bars and a crumpled family photo.

Chloe’s only experience of being homeless is the freezing night she spent on the streets when she was just thirteen. She’d decided to flee after a particularly bad beating from her father, and had slept, curled up in the corner of an alley for the night. Despite her efforts to stay low, stealing discarded food — which was all perfectly good, thank you very much — and creeping around out of sight, her father had found her the next day and dragged her home, kicking and screaming.

She’d gone to bed with five new bruises and two new cuts that night.

Chloe has no idea how she’s going to survive the coming months — it’s nearly November, and the New York winters are _brutal_  — but she attempts to steel her expression, and drown the emotion in her eyes. There’s no one around to see her desperate attempts — people like her are invisible on the bustling streets — but her ability to control her emotions calms her somewhat. It’s an art she perfected when she was just ten, and she’s only been getting better since.

At exactly 5:30pm, Chloe slams her apartment door behind her and trudges down the rickety stairs, her rucksack strapped to her back, not looking back once. What’s there to miss, anyways?

(Okay, apart from the roof over her head and the marginal warmth it provided. The roof leaked, and it was barely warmer than the icy streets, but it was _something._ )

Chloe swallows thickly and steps outside, trying to ignore the sudden shiver that shoots down her spine as a gust of wind sweeps around her. People shove into her as she turns and scurries down the street, all too focused on themselves and getting where they need to be to notice the dirty, malnourished woman weaving in between them.

* * *

The next two weeks really don’t go well.

Chloe likes to think she’s doing okay, likes to think that she’s getting enough food and sleep, likes to think she doesn’t hate herself for this, but she knows just about everything is wrong with her life right now. Sleeping in dark — and probably dangerous — alleyways huddled up with nothing but a threadbare blanket isn’t doing anything to help her health. She was already hungry — not starving, because she eats more than those poor children in Africa, even if it’s not by much — and weak before getting evicted, so spending her days on the cold streets of New York is agony.

Thankfully, she’s able to sneak the odd sandwich from Starbucks, but she’s trying to be more careful since one of her nosey co-workers caught her attempting to steal three tubs of pre-heated tomato and basil soup.

_(“Hey you, ginger, what the hell are you doing?”)_

_Chloe whips around to see Adam standing behind her, an odd expression on his face, his eyes narrowed. She glances down to the small plastic pots of soup tucked under her arm and winces, realising how strange it looks._

_“Just, um, throwing these out. Th-They’ve gone off,” she stammers, desperately hoping Adam won’t be able to detect the slight shake to her voice. The man squints at her disbelievingly and gestures to the soup, his brows furrowed._

_“I put those in there_ yesterday. _They’re definitely not out of date,” he says confidently, his head held high in that annoyingly cocky way Chloe hates. Her heart drops, because_ shit _, she really didn’t plan for any of this. Adam isn’t the kind of guy to let things go easily. (He’s still mad at her for rejecting him for the nineteenth time. He really doesn’t get the hint.)_

_“Uh, well I’m just taking orders from Stephanie. If you have a problem, take it up with her,” Chloe lies, trying to keep the tremor from her voice. She steps back nervously, fighting the urge to pull her bottom lip between her teeth and chew on it to relieve some anxiety._

_Stephanie is the manager, and probably one of the only people Chloe actually likes and considers a friend. The rest of them are somewhat hostile — all friends with Adam, no doubt — so Steph had taken poor Chloe under her wing when she started working at Starbucks, her spine curved forwards and her head tucked into her chest. They formed a strange but strong friendship, but Chloe refuses to let it grow outside work, politely declining all of Steph’s invitations to go out for drinks and whatnot. She just isn’t in the right place at the moment, let alone to have_ friends _._

_Of course, Stephanie didn’t actually tell her to throw away the perfectly good tubs of soup, but Chloe knows the brunette will back her up in the blink of an eye, so she’s not worried if Adam decides to ask her. (It’s unlikely that he will, he’s not that smart.)_

_Adam hums quietly and leers at Chloe, his smoky breath washing over her neck uncomfortably. The redhead flinches away, hugging the soup closer to her body as she shuffled backwards, wanting nothing more than to scrub the stench of smoke from her skin. She’s hungry, tired, and she knows she probably (definitely) smells; she doesn’t have the time or energy to deal with someone like Adam right now._

_“Um, sorry, but I have to get back to work.” It’s not a complete lie; she still has half an hour left of her shift, but technically she’s finished all her jobs, so she’s just wandering around doing the odd job here and there. (But Adam doesn’t need to know that. Besides, he should be serving customers right now.)_

_“Hmm, what a shame. Maybe next time?” Adam winks suggestively and leans forward, his lips brushing against Chloe’s ear as he speaks. He skims a hand over the redhead’s wrist as he turns to leave, his fingers pinching at the skin for a split second._

_As soon as he’s out of sight, Chloe crumbles, her body sagging against the counter as she sighs heavily. That was close.)_

Chloe clutches her blanket closer to her chest, fingers curling into the thin polyester as she fights off the violent shivers wracking through her thin frame. Pale, wispy clouds form as she puffs out a weak breath, watching the pale vapour fly away against the inky November sky. She tips her head back against the brick wall behind her, wincing as her skull cracks painfully. It’s something though. It’s _feeling_. At least it’s better than the numbness seeping into her bones, devouring her piece by piece.

Clamping her hand over her mouth to stifle a yawn, Chloe sips carefully at the small bottle of water she snatched from work earlier. People stare at her as she sits there, tucked away in the alley, their gazes cold and uncaring. They all cling to the arms of their significant others as they walk past, afraid she might leap out and attack them. Chloe sighs. Why is that what they all think?

It’s not like she’s offended by it. Not really, anyways. She’s well past the point of caring.

Her bones _ache_ , infected with a deep-rooted exhaustion that only worsens as each minute, hour, day passes. Hunger gnaws at her stomach, eating away at her insides as she draws her legs impossibly closer to her chest and breaths hot hair onto her trembling hands. Sobs crawl up Chloe’s throat, and she chokes, bringing her hands up to her neck, nails scraping painfully at the skin. As tears roll down her cheeks, dripping innocently down her grazed neck, splashing onto her blanket, she wonders what the hell her life has become.

* * *

Beca’s sat at the bar, perched on the high stool, her slim fingers wrapped around the neck of a beer bottle. The moisture seeps into her skin, a nice contrast against the hot, sweaty atmosphere of the bar. She was, of course, dragged in by Stacie and Aubrey, both intent on forcing her to let her hair loose for once.

Although Beca hates bars, she  _is_ due her monthly one night stand, so she supposes her being her isn't that bad. Usually she'd dancing with a girl by now, their bodies grinding together in the slick heat, blood rushing. But she’s not. Beca hates to think that she’s becoming  _soft_ , desiring more than just meaningless flings every now and then. Is quick, easy sex not enough for her anymore? Beca’s never wanted a relationship in her life — they’ve always seemed like too much work — but now she finds herself almost craving the simple domesticity of it all.

Beca startles she feels a soft hand touch her shoulder, and she whips round, fingers curled into a fist, to see an attractive blonde woman standing beside her, smirking. Her hair falls down around her shoulders in soft waves, and a tiny, tight black dress clings to her slim frame.  _Finally. Maybe someone I can try and forget about everything with,_ Beca thinks, relaxing her hand as she lets her own lips curl into a small smile.

“I couldn’t help but notice you’re alone,” the woman stars, pausing to take a sip of the vodka martini clutched in one hand. Beca knows it’s meant to be sexy, and it is, but it’s just so  _slow._ What’s the problem with being direct these days? Everyone seems to dance around their feelings like fairies, instead of actually getting on with it.

Beca slips easily off her bar stool and holds up her hand to stop the young blonde from continuing. “Let’s cut to the chase. My name is Beca. What’s yours?”

The blonde looks mildly startled at the blunt words, but her emerald eyes sparkle as soon as the tension seeps from her shoulders. She knows she’s hit a jackpot with Beca. “Melanie,” she says, pulling her bottom lip between her teeth coyly.

“Great, nice to meet you Melanie. Now let’s fuck.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> please let me know what you think! :)
> 
> ( follow my social media —  
> tumblr: @djbmitch  
> twitter: @brooklynsocean  
> insta: @leafyocean )


	3. three

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’M BACK BITCHES.
> 
> well. my only excuse is that my mental health has gone severely downhill and i haven’t had the motivation nor the energy to write this chapter. but a comment last week spurred me into action and i’ve spent the last few days writing this. i hope y’all enjoy it!
> 
> i don’t know what when the next chapter will come. i _will_ write it, but i have exams in a few weeks and i just make sure i put what little motivation i have into revising for them. i’m sorry. but fear not, i will make sure i update before christmas at least :)

When Beca wakes up the next morning, her legs tangled loosely in bed sheets and her arm flung across someone’s warm stomach, she panics. Before she even has time to process what’s happening and where she is, she’s scrambling out of the bed, limbs flailing as she staggers to her feet. Her jaw drops in horror as her gaze lands on the smooth sleeping body sprawled across the bed, pretty face pressed into the pillow.   
  
So that’s what happened.   
  
(Well, more like who.)   
  
Glancing at the clock on the nightstand, Beca realises it’s only 6AM and sighs in relief; there’s no way Madelaine? Marilyn? Maisie? — she has no idea — will wake up this early. It’s practically still night. In fact, she can even see the fucking stars in the sky. Clutching her arm across her chest, the brunette fumbles around for her discarded shirt and bra, holding her breath as she trips into the edge of the bed. “ _ Shit _ .” The curse word kind of slips out, as they always seem to with Beca, but the girl doesn’t stir -- thank  _ god _ . 

After yanking on her jeans and throwing on her shirt, Beca stumbles from the apartment, clutching her shoes in one hand and her bra in the other. Her phone starts blaring from her pocket, the irritating ringtone piercing the frosty silence. The brunette slides her phone into her hand and squints down at the screen, cursing silently under her breath as the name swims into focus. She can’t see  _ shit  _ without her contacts in.

And then she blinks, and she can just make out the Caller ID: Aubrey Posen. Fuck.

Leaning heavily against the wall in the foyer of the woman’s apartment building, Beca swipes her thumb across the screen and raises her phone to her ear, mentally preparing herself for the words of probable anger that are about to come. “Hey Bree, what’s up?” Somehow, her casual tone hides her hammering heart and the lump in her throat that won’t fucking go away, no matter how many times she swallows.

_ “Beca, are you okay? Where are you? You left last night with someone and you didn’t answer mine or Stacie’s calls.”  _ Beca’s surprised to hear Aubrey’s concern floating through the receiver, and not the rage she’d pictured in her mind. (She really is awful at reading people, even after all these years. Perhaps she should do some research, or maybe even—)  _ “Beca? Are you there?” _

“I’m here, sorry. It was just a hookup, I’ve already left,” the brunette explains, cramming the phone between her cheek and shoulder so she can awkwardly fiddle with her watch and wish the conversation away.

Aubrey sighs through the phone, and Beca can literally  _ hear  _ her rolling her eyes.  _ “A one night stand? Beca, those aren’t healthy, especially not for you. Mindless sex can’t heal you, you know,”  _ the blonde scolds, her voice hardening as her mind drifts to an image of Beca working herself into the deep depths of depression with her unhealthy lifestyle. She shivers. She really doesn’t want that for Beca, the woman deserves so much better. The brunette  _ is  _ a good person underneath all that eyeliner and her tough facade.

“Dude, you’re the one who forced me to come out with you and Stacie. Don’t come yelling at me for having a one night stand. I’d have happily stayed in, but apparently that’s not good enough for you either. I won’t fucking bother next time.” Beca knows she’s being snappy, but it’s 6:15 and she’s not in the fucking mood to endure a forty-five minute rant from Aubrey about the importance of genuine social interaction.

(And no, extensive moaning and dirty talk do  _ not  _ count.)

Beca hangs up before the blonde can make any half-assed excuses and pulls up her keypad to dial for an Uber. She needs a fucking shower and another four hours of sleep.

* * *

All Chloe can think about is the deep-rooted chill in her bones, and the fact she hasn’t eaten in a week. Her stomach  _ hurts _ , and she doesn’t think she’s ever been so cold. The air is frozen lace upon her skin, decorating the pale expanse like a detailed map, carving roads and trenches into the cracked landscape. It’s hardly surprising that she has a cold -- her nose is stuffed up, her throat is sore, and she’s pretty certain that sucking on snow for water isn’t exactly helping matters.

Chloe doubles over, her cough wracking through her thin frame, her heart rattling in her rib cage as her breaths form wisps in the cruel night. As people walk past, arm in arm with loved ones, laughing delicately as they rush into the nearest building, desperate for warmth, Chloe almost (read: really) hopes that someone will take pity on her.

But every time she dares to glance up, dares to even make eye contact with one of the stylishly dressed women prancing down the street, she’s met with cold eyes and curled lips. They take no pity on her, they have no feeling. They assume it’s her fault she’s out on the streets, her life ruined by drink or drugs, her money wasted on cigarettes and booze.

They just turn away, gloved fingers tapping at their phone screens, eyes cast across the street, fighting the spark of guilt that threatens to rise inside them. It’s squashed, just like the faint promise of a warmer day or decent food discarded on the street.

Chloe’s given up by now, too focused on searching the darkest depths of her mind for some semblance of a happy memory to cling onto. She doesn’t know what’s stopping her from staggering to the nearest bridge and throwing herself off into the abyss. Perhaps the hope still flickering in her chest, the knowledge that one day things  _ could  _ get better. Maybe her parents will forgive her, come back for her, tell her they love her.

The redhead knows it’s not true. She knows by now never to put faith in anyone; they’ll only let her down, cruel smiles stretching across their lips as she breaks down once again.

But it’s all she has. What else does she have to cling on to?

* * *

Beca’s at the club again.

She doesn’t know why —  _ don’t  _ ask her — but she suspects it has something to do with the seemingly permanent ache in her chest that has a fooled into thinking she craves something more. (She absolutely doesn’t.)

Aubrey and Stacie don’t know she’s here, which is probably for the best. She’s actually dancing today, ignoring the uncomfortable thumping low in her gut as she allows herself to be pushed from body to body, sweat dripping down her neck.

Before she really knows what’s happening, there’s a confident arm wrapped around her waist and she’s being tugged back into a woman’s — judging by the impossible softness — body. Beca doesn’t think about how little she wants to be here, doesn’t  _ want  _ to think about how unhealthy this is, she just throws herself back into the woman and grinds to the beat of the music.

She spins around, winding her arms around the—  _ wow _ . The woman is  _ seriously hot _ . Her rich, golden curls cascade onto her shoulders like honey, and her startling blue eyes twinkle like stars in the pulsating lights of the club. For a brief moment, Beca feels the breath knocked out of her, before she lets herself fall back into Hot Woman’s arms and allows herself to get caught up in the moment.

It’s probably (read: definitely) not a good idea to drown her loneliness in alcohol and a stranger’s soft, warm body, but sue her, she’s  _ hurting _ . Beca thinks she has no reason to be in  _ so much pain _ , but clearly her heart has another ideas. (Stupid ideas, stupid  _ stupid  _ ideas.)

They still haven’t spoken, which Beca thinks is probably for the best — she doesn’t want the woman to open her mouth and make her regret getting caught up in the moment. (The brunette has a rather annoying habit of going off people when they reveal their intelligence doesn’t match their beauty.)

And then—

“You wanna get out of here?”

Beca, of course, agrees.

* * *

They’re just leaving — after Beca hurriedly downs a few shots to try and convince herself that leaving with this stranger is a good idea — arms linked, breath mingling as they stumble out into the frosty night. Beca’s not  _ that  _ drunk. Sure, she’s tipsy, but she can (just about) think coherently and she still knows right from wrong.

(Ever since her first glass of wine when she was seventeen — she was at home, don’t come for her — she’s prided herself in being able to hold her liquor better than most.)

So when she walks into something that feels suspiciously like a body, Beca doesn’t assume it’s just her mind playing tricks on her. The street isn’t lit very well, but when she looks down she can clearly make out the outline of a woman, slumped over to the side.

Beca’s not good at affection. She’s not good at  _ touching _ or being close to people in general.  She even thinks she’d be an  _ awful  _ mother — she can’t take care of herself, let alone a dependent baby — but, like she said, she knows right from wrong. The brunette knows that stopping to check that this woman isn’t  _ dead _ is definitely the right thing to do, even if the blonde woman is tugging at her arm to try and pull her away.

Glaring in the drunk blonde’s direction, Beca yanks her arm out of the suddenly tight grip. Wobbling ever so slightly, crouches down and presses two warm fingers against the (hopefully) sleeping woman’s neck. The pale skin is icy to the touch and her frail shoulders shake violently with shivers every few seconds.

There’s a pulse. It’s faint, barely fluttering beneath her fingertips, but it’s  _ there _ , and that’s all that matters.

Beca supposes that taking the unconscious woman to the hospital is the next logical course of action. Successfully sobered, the petite brunette rises and moves to pull her phone from her pocket. She doesn’t want to further put the woman’s life in danger by driving to the hospital herself — if it was just her life in her hands she would probably risk it — so calling for a cab seems like the sensible option. (She thinks Aubrey would be proud.)

“Heyyy, wh-what are yous doiiinggg?”

Shit. Beca may or may not have forgotten about her.

“I have to take her to the hospital, she’s barely breathing. She could die if she stays here much longer.”

“So? She’s a filthy whore. Look at her out here; it’s her own stupid fault,” she blonde says, her lip curling up into a disgusted grimace. She tries to reach for Beca, her slender fingers curling around the brunette’s wrist, but she doesn’t manage to keep her grip for more than a few seconds.

Beca easily snatches her hand back to her chested and snarls at the blonde. “How dare you? Get away from me,” she hisses, glaring sharply before turning her attention back to her phone to call for a cab.

“Noooo, lookkk, just come home w-with me. I knnnow you waaant meeee.” The tall woman leans forward in an attempt to be seductive and pulls her bottom lip between her teeth. But Beca can’t see the golden hair and doe eyes she once had back in the club. All she can see are those harsh words scrawled across her face like a disease.

“No.”

“But I—”

“I’m not coming home with you. Either leave or let me call you a cab to take you home.” The drunk blonde —  _ finally  _ — takes that as her cue to leave, and she stalks off into the night with one last longing glance at Beca.

The brunette wastes no time in dialling for a cab before scooping the redhead — she thinks, anyways — into her arms. She’s lighter than she looks, and weighs almost nothing, which Beca supposes checks out if she’s homeless. (Judging by the matted hair and threadbare coat, Beca has no doubt that she is.)

Swallowing thickly, the petite woman cradles the body in her arms and gently brushes tangled hair away from sunken eyes and hollow cheeks. She allows herself to cast her gaze down over cobwebbed eyelashes, stiff with the frost, to sharp collar bones peeking out from the woman’s thin jumper. There’s absolutely no doubt that the redhead is  _ beautiful _ , despite the dirt streaked across her face and the smell of smoke and trash wafting from her torn clothes.

There’s a childlike innocence about her — whether it’s aided by her flushed cheeks and bright pink nose, Beca would rather not comment.

* * *

When the cab arrives ten minutes later, Beca’s freezing. She’s only in a thin black tee and a leather jacket — she hadn’t exactly anticipated sitting out in the cold. Everything is still a little hazy when she pulls the redhead onto the backseat — rather awkwardly, she might add — and mumbles the address to Brooklyn Methodist.

Beca spends the journey gently stroking the woman’s cheek and trying to warm her up with the hot air blasting from the tiny fan in front of them. And once she tells the driver to “hurry the fuck up” because she’s got a “dying woman in her arms” they actually start making some progress.

After an estimated fifteen minutes — Beca’s never been any good at Math, let’s be honest — the brunette thinks she’s become unexplainably attached to the redhead. She doesn’t want to be,  _ trust her _ , but there’s this feeling stirring low in her gut and honestly she’s not too sure what to make of it.

Beca has, in fact, made a list of what she thinks of the current situation.

  1. The redhead is a complete stranger.
  2. She’s a complete failure when it comes to love.
  3. She has extreme abandonment issues.
  4. She doesn’t know how to even _do_ relationships.
  5. She snores.



So yeah, it’s all a bit of a mess really.

She thanks the cab driver and shoves some dollar bills into his hand before pushing the door open and hauling the limp redhead into her arms. Now, the brunette prides herself in being stronger than she looks — she takes self defence classes and she  _ even  _ lifts weights (occasionally) — but she isn’t sure she’s strong enough to carry a dead weight all the way into the hospital.

And she also doesn’t know where the fuck she’s meant to go with a dying woman. She assumes the Emergency Department is her best bet, but it’s not like she frequents any hospital, let alone Brooklyn Methodist, so she supposes it’s up to her and her mildly foggy brain to find the way.

Ignoring the sharp ache at the bottom of her back, Beca walks quickly through the car park with the redhead cradled in her arms. The automatic doors slide open as they sense her presence, and she rushes forward into the brightly lit room, the overwhelming stench of bleach suddenly crashing into her. The brunette squints, because she doesn’t like light on a  _ good  _ day, let alone when she’s tipsy.

It’s clear karma is on her side — for once — because there seems to be some kind of reception desk ahead of her. She ignores all weird looks directed her way in favour of shuffling forward towards the robotic woman — she doesn’t fucking have  _ time  _ to care about judgement right now.

“Excuse me? I have someone here who’s probably dying and—” Beca looks up from Chloe’s angelic face to see the receptionist on the phone in front of her, not even looking up as she absent-mindedly taps away at her computer keyboard. “Hey, lady, I have a  _ dying woman  _ in my arms. Fucking  _ help me  _ or find someone who can,” she yells, pulling the redhead’s frail body closer to her chest as the receptionist suddenly springs up from her chair and dials a number. (Beca just hopes it’s a helpful one.)

“I’m sorry Miss, I was just—” She’s cut off when the person on the other end of the phone picks up and then everything becomes a blur.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> please let me know what you think!
> 
> follow me on twitter @brooklynsocean  
>  instagram @softlywriting  
>  tumblr @dancingwithwind

**Author's Note:**

> please let me know what you thought! reviews help me write faster :)


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